


Whatever lies closest

by erimies



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Desire Demons (Dragon Age), Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Humor, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erimies/pseuds/erimies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett Hawke is a charming man. His friends trust him, his mother and sister love him, his brother envies him. And if he seems a little too good to be true, that's because he is. </p><p>In fact, Garrett Hawke isn't even human. </p><p>He doesn't like to think about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The last mistake

Is there something you want? The sensual joys of the flesh, the wealth of gold and Orlesian silk, the heady poison of power? Or something more modest? A warm hearth, a plentiful harvest and robust health?

The details do not matter. What is important is the _want_. All have felt the caress of desire. Sometimes, it is slow, burning like embers. Other times, it is sharp and violent. And always, always cruel.

Garrett Hawke wanted many things. A home where he could carve an impression of himself and watch as the building grew old around his family. A town so familiar he could let his feet take him where he needed to be without having to stop to think. A life where an unusual sound in the middle of the night was not a cause for terrible fear.

What he had was a family, and a life on the run. And magic, crawling under his skin, always willing and eager.

Tonight was a bad night. Someone was downstairs.

Garrett leaped out of the bed, grabbing the staff that always lay right beside the bed. There was no time for changing clothes or gathering supplies, but there was no need to. The Hawke family was always well prepared to disappear into the night.

Somewhere downstairs he heard the crackle of his father’s lightning, and fear dug its claws deeper, somewhere near his liver. Chain lightning was a dangerous thing. You didn’t waste it on an unlucky burglar.

Garrett made it out of his room just in time to jab the blunt end of his staff at the first faceless, armoured Templar climbing upstairs. The man fell, surprised, and the rest of the Templars tumbled down with him, making a sound like falling tin cans. In any other situation, it would have been funny.

Garrett made a quick, faithless prayer. Then he spun his staff and the advancing Templar forces were struck down by a storm of ice.

* * *

Bethany, Garrett thought numbly. He had to protect Bethany. And Carver, who didn’t have the sense to back down when overwhelmed.

Garrett lifted his head, trying to blink blood from his eyes. The hallway was full of corpses. The smell of charred flesh invaded his nostrils. Blood seeped into the ratty carpet they had once made from old scraps of cloth.

But there were still more Templars. Garret wondered if there was any end to them. Garrett wondered why they would go this far. Father wasn’t a blood mage, would never lend his ear to the whispers of demons. He had taught those same things to his children, too. The Hawkes didn’t want to hurt anyone. They just wanted to live.

A Templar emerged, dragging a tiny struggling body. “Will you stay still, you –!”

It was Bethany. She was crying. Blood stained her nightshirt.

 _Please, sister_ , Garrett thought desperately. _Please calm down. Don’t do anything rash._

No such luck. Bright light bloomed in Bethany’s hands, flickering, alive despite the suppression of magic. Garrett might have admired her ability, if this had been one of their father’s lessons.

Another Templar, who wasn’t busy trying to hold onto Bethany, pulled out his sword. It gleamed, sharp and terrible in the light of her magic.  

A thought formed in Garrett’s mind. As far as thoughts go, this was a dangerous one.

_If we’re all going to die anyway –_

In answer, there was a voice in his mind, and it was not his own. It was pleasant and lilting, slithering down all the right pathways of his brain.

And what it said was this:

_Is there something you want?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there goes my resolve to finish the story before posting it. Problem is, whenever I try to continue writing, I just keep ending up editing old chapters. This is my attempt to force myself to move on with the story proper.


	2. The path of Blight

 

Garret Hawke was many things.  He was the oldest son of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate mage, and the owner of a particularly attractive beard.

He was also an abomination.

The demon that wore Hawke’s face wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, all those years ago. The deal had been struck, and it had manifested itself, and it had slaughtered a squadron of Templars without mercy. The host’s family had been spared, because… because that had been the deal, and it was fairly conscientious as far as demons went. You might twist the deal until it was a mockery of the original intent, but you did not abandon it. At least, not as long as it was interesting.

(Incidentally, it was also, as far as demons went, not very interested in power or inflicting random violence. Mostly because it had the attention span of a gnat.)

And then, it had looked around at a hallway filled with charred corpses, and realised that it had no idea what to do next. It had reached out for the spirit of Hawke, and found only silence. In the absence of any real plan or goal, it had followed Hawke’s will.

The thing was, it had never really _stopped_. Years and years had passed since that night, but it still honoured that first and last deal. On occasion it went back to Hawke’s slumbering spirit, but Hawke never spoke to it again.

The demon didn’t understand why. The body had long since recovered. Hawke should have woken, but he had not.

Learning to pass for a human had been a trying effort. It knew enough of human psyche to tempt, but its knowledge was still terribly limited, unsuited for the mental acrobatics and shortcuts that the human mind went through on daily basis. But over time things caught onto its mind, slowly at first and then faster, and somehow years passed without incident. When it walked outside, people waved in greeting. Hawke’s mother smiled at it. The siblings called it brother.

Only Bethany had ever come close to the truth, in those early days. She had happened to walk upon her gentle, kind older brother as he stomped down on the frail body of a kitten, with a terrible look of mild curiosity on his face. She had watched him turn, and seen surprise bloom on his face. Then, an emotion she could not _(_ ~~did not want to~~ ) understand ( ~~realization that it had been caught breaking the rules~~ ).

Before the hideous thought could come out – she could feel it trying to emerge, bulging and ugly, like a boil – her brother’s face had broken into remorse and tears. “Don’t tell mother,” he’d said, voice wretched with regret. “I – I don’t know what got into me. The, the kitten clawed at me. I was surprised. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Some distant part of Bethany had whispered that there was no blemish on her brother’s skin. She had ignored it. She didn’t want to know the truth.

She had hugged the form of her brother and believed whisper of the demon.

Eventually, she forgot. It took some effort.

And then, there was the Blight.

* * *

“Run! I’ll do something to stall them!”

Hawke’s mother tried to protest, but Carver grabbed her elbow and pulled her along. Bethany strayed, eyebrows drawn in a worried furrow, but Hawke gave her his most confident smile and she, too, ran ahead.

Hawke turned to face the darkspawn. He thought he must cut a rather dashing figure, silhouetted against the burning land and the seething mass of monsters. A shame there was no one to admire him.

It was often troublesome to live such a layered life – hiding his magic from the Templars, hiding his own nature from his family – but one boon of being a demon was the _power_. He pulled his staff off his back.

Mana streamed out in strong, stable threads and curled around him. He forced the spell to take form, and a flare of fire burst into life.  

He lifted the staff and dragged it through the air, leaving a faint trail of flames behind. A pillar of fire struck down like the wrath of gods. The earth under his feet trembled from the force of it.

He lifted his head to look at what he’d wrought. The site of the impact was a crater. The charred remains of the darkspawn littered broken stone and earth.  

Hawke stood straight and stretched his shoulders, sheathing his staff. Power was something he happened to have, something useful  he could use to protect his family, and that was all there was to it.

Even so, it _did_ feel good to have the elbow room to throw magic around. If there were any Templars still around, they surely had other things in mind than chasing after some apostates. Blight had a way of getting in the way of everyday protocol.

He glanced around, just in case. There were still things he could not let anyone see.

He dropped to his knees and dug his fingers into rubble _._ All around him, thin little tendrils appeared, waving gently in a non-existent wind.

They were not exactly real, as most people understood the word. In the Fade he could shape the world around him at will. In the real world, he could only create these echoes, give shape to people’s lingering desires in the Fade.

Hawke pulled at them, searching, and found the traces of his family. He let the threads fade out of sight and took off.

Behind him, new darkspawn hesitantly braved the terrain of destruction he had left behind.

* * *

When he found his family, he also found that Carver was angry at him again.

 “Yeah, great, big brother saves the day,” Carver spat at Hawke and brushed past, slamming against his shoulder. “ _Again_. You bloody great flashy _hero_.”

Bethany gave Hawke an apologetic look. Fear flittered on her face like a lizard runs across a stone, gone in the blink of an eye. Hawke didn’t pay attention. He stared at the retreating form of his brother, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Carver’s attitude had mystified him for years. His little brother had used to idolise him, had thought that his elder brother could do _anything_. And the weirdest part was that he still believed that. It just made him angry, these days.

“Don’t go too far ahead on your own,” Hawke yelled after his brother. Carver sent back a rude gesture.

Leandra merely shook her head.

“Oh, Carver. Watch after him, Garrett. He’s far too hot-headed. I’m afraid he’ll get in over his head.”

“Yes, mother,” Hawke said dutifully.

* * *

By the time they reached the woman called Aveline and her husband, Hawke was contemplating going off on a personal crusade to destroy every single darkspawn on earth. Filthy, rotting things, knowing nothing beyond a cruel instinct to destroy. No sophistication at all. They could not even be tempted. All they wanted was carnage, and there was nothing that could make them stray from that path. Hawke took offence. 

But he had to protect the family. Somewhere along the years, that thought had ceased to be optional, much in the same way he could no longer quite think of himself as anything else than Hawke.

Whatever the reason was, it hardly mattered. The demon that was Hawke wasn’t particularly prone to suffering from an identity crisis. It helped, when you wanted to live in the world.   

Life had so much to offer. He wasn’t through with it yet.

Hawke glanced at the two humans they had saved. The man struggled to stand, even in the grip of his wife. He was a Templar.

Hawke almost grinned, thought better of it, and kept the mirth inside. One of the finer things of the human psyche was the understanding of irony. Hawke embraced the sentiment with glee.

The man, Wesley, pointed a trembling finger somewhere in Hawke’s general direction.

“Apostate, keep your distance!”

His wife, Aveline, expertly hid a grimace. Hawke knew that she would not be trouble. And the man… well. Here and now, he was clinging onto his directions and vows for some semblance of a structure in a world that burned around him. A Templar always clung to order. It had been beat into his mind. 

But Wesley also wanted to live. Twisting his will around would be easy, like flicking at a soap bubble.

Hawke wanted to sigh. He could tempt a Chantry sister out of her plain, chaste undergarments. Having to resort to something as basic as survival instinct hurt his pride.

But there was family to think of.

Forehead furrowed, Hawke pressed his hands together in a beseeching gesture. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to postpone this discussion about our magic? The darkspawn are many. Surely, you agree there is less to lose by taking your chances with us.”

His voice was a careful mix of imploring, concern, and a sort of weary exhaustion.  It was a voice of reason, hopelessly hoping that things might work out if everyone talked things out like rational people.

No blame. People tended to lash out when blamed. _That_ sentiment had to be treated with velvet gloves.

(Though it had its uses, certainly, and could do a great many things when applied with proper care, as a healer might skilfully mix a health potion or a deadly poison.)

And Wesley picked up the message underneath the underneath, understood without understanding. He flushed, stammered, and agreed that working together was the best option.

Wesley had been raised to seek order. He did not want to think of himself as ‘unreasonable’. And when Hawke was being _so very reasonable_ about working with a Templar, when he presented an argument that was logical and ordered, Wesley felt the need to return the gesture. He was a Templar, a man of justice. He could not be the irrational one.

Hawke smiled at him and his wife, face full of relief he didn’t really feel. There was always something people wanted.

And they were so much more willing to walk into a trap when you looked like a human.

* * *

“You are a curious thing, aren’t you,” Flemeth said quietly, and if eyes could pierce, Hawke would have had a new hole somewhere on his person. He tried not to look too nervous.

This woman had a tough mind, like old leather. She had her desires, a great many bitter things, but they were strange and distant and Hawke didn’t know them. She could not be led where she didn’t want to go.

He thought he might know her from somewhere. But the memory was too old and worn to be of use.

Whoever she was, she knew enough to see the real thing. Hawke clasped his hands and took a trembling breath. He wasn’t used to feeling helpless. “Is there anything I can offer, that you might consider lending us your aid? We are weary and ill, and, I fear, lady Aveline’s husband…”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “I see… so you play the fiddle. Am I to dance? I see that the people around you already do, pulled along like puppets on strings… But what will you do, I wonder, when the music ends?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said cautiously. “I suppose I will find out when the time comes.”

Flemeth nodded. She seemed to approve of the answer. “Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide, either way, one's a fool. The truth you fear is not the end, but the beginning. Still, I am sure you have better things to do than listening to the ramblings of an old woman. It appears fortune smiles on us both. I may be able to help you yet.”

Hawke breathed out in relief. He saw, and knew that she knew, and knew that she knew that he knew that she knew. Flemeth could have easily exposed him, but she had not.

Hawke had no desire to see what his family would think of those words. _‘He is a demon.’_ So easily, so quickly he could lose everything. One way or the other.

He didn’t want that.

He liked living in the world, even here in the middle of darkspawn and fleeing from a land that spoiled under their feet. Somewhere out there was a clean place where he could see the bright sky, where there was a warm hearth and ale. And people.

Hawke liked people. They always thought something interesting. When you said just a few words, they thought something else, and you could build ideas like castles of cards in people’s minds. It was fascinating.

 _Family_ was off limits, though. He wasn’t entirely sure why. It just wasn’t something you _did_.

He turned back to Aveline, who was holding the hand of her husband with the kind of force that should have cracked his bone. But, then, that didn’t really matter when one was dying. Hawke could see the taint in the man’s mind. Soon, the patterns of his thought would be corrupted, made to listen to the strange music of the Blight, replaced by the singular obsession to seek out darkspawn. And to feed. There was always that.

Aveline was trying to deceive herself, thinking over and over that Wesley would be all right, running the idea through her mind like a broken record. She wasn’t much good at it, but was making up for that with sheer effort.

Hawke laid a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s too late for him. It’s spread too far.”

Wesley groaned in pain. He was a man of order. He was good at holding onto his own way of thinking. But the Blight was unyielding. And he knew it, too. “He’s right, Aveline, I can feel it. Please, I can’t… I don’t want a slow death.”

Hawke looked at Aveline’s mind, and saw that she was grieving and saw that she was strong. He wanted to keep her.

“It’s your call, Aveline.”

She gave a jerky nod and stood. With one slash of a blade, the shapes of Wesley’s thoughts disappeared forever.

Hawke was vaguely disappointed. He would have liked to see if he could have talked the man out of fulfilling his oath as a Templar. The conflict had been there, between his sense of duty and his desire to protect his allies even over moral principles. Hypocrisy was always interesting, and so very human.

But there was family to think of, and Hawke led Aveline away, politely ignoring the way her shoulder shook ever so slightly under his hand.

* * *

In Gwaren, they found a ship that would take them to Kirkwall. It was packed full of refugees and had no room for more. After a brief talk with Hawke, the captain suddenly remembered that there was just enough space for a few more, what a remarkable coincidence, how lucky you folks showed up now, hahaha.

And the ship sailed over the murky sea, leaving the strange lands of the Blight behind. Across the waters waited Kirkwall, like some great predator that lurks near the only water hole of the area, knowing the prey would have to come. Eventually.

Hawke liked the thought of living in a city. So many people, so many different desires.

After all, he, too, was a predator.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flemeth is hard to write. I came up with one good line, ran out of steam and scrambled something together from quotes. Ah well. 
> 
> Expect chapter three in a few days.


	3. Meet the new friends

Aveline graced the walls of Kirkwall with a look that evaluated it down to the last brick and saw room for improvement… practically everywhere. The city gave off the impression of a miserable hive, but, on the other hand, it was not Blighted. Many things suddenly seemed more appealing in comparison to its rot and ruin.

Other people had clearly thought along the same lines. There was a crowd of people spilling over the docks, all of them tired and desperate for shelter. They were barely kept in control by several bored guardsmen, who seemed to have nothing to offer but rehearsed platitudes and irritation.

“How are we going to get in?” Aveline asked, rubbing her temples. She had a headache.

The trip had been exhausting. There had been enough refugees to spill over the edges of the boat, and she wasn’t sure how the eldest Hawke brother had managed to talk the captain into taking them on.

He seemed to be good at that sort of thing. More than once he had come back from the galley with extra ratios and a pleased grin. When Bethany got seasick and had to hurl over the edge, Garrett held her hair and stroked her back. When Carver let his anxiety get the best of him, Garrett drew his ire so that the rest of the group was spared.

And he always seemed to sense when Aveline needed to mourn alone, herding everyone else away to give her a semblance of personal space.

Garrett turned, as if sensing her gaze, and gave Aveline a reassuring grin.

He was good at those, too. Aveline had never met another person with such a bright, sincere smile in her entire life. A smile said that he would take care of everything. All you had to do was trust.

An inner voice, the bedrock Aveline relied on when everything else fell apart, said that things that seemed too good to be true usually were. That thought had been niggling at her for days now, finding footing and power, looking for reasons and patterns. She was a little ashamed for suspecting someone who had saved her life, but there it was.

“Don’t worry, I’ll see what I can do,” Garrett reassured her and ambled towards the guards. He always seemed to amble, even when he was running for his life.

Aveline couldn’t hear what was said, but she saw the guard’s face shift from barely contained scorn into mild interest, then a reluctant grin. A few minutes later, they were quietly ushered in through the gates.

Garrett gave Aveline a sheepish smile. “I know it’s shady, but I gotta take care of the family,” he said.

Aveline nodded. She did understand.

Most of the time, she didn’t approve of bending the rules. Corruption was another type of blight, a rust that eventually ground the machinery of any society into useless scrap metal.

But, of course, he was right. You had to take care of your family. Rules were not there to be worshipped, they were there for people. Perhaps she had spent too long listening to Wesley. There was no need to look for demons everywhere, literal or metaphorical. Some people simply happened to be charming.

Garrett glanced at her and smiled, eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked like a content cat.

“Will you be all right, Aveline? Do you have a place to go? We would be happy to have you, once we find our uncle.”

“I might have to take you up on that offer, just until I can find my own footing. And if you _ever_ need a hand…”

Garrett’s smile was almost blinding.

“ _Anything_ for a friend,” he said.

Aveline believed him.

* * *

Hawke couldn’t quite wipe the excitable grin off his face. Kirkwall was fascinating. And also a giant festering boil. He could only wonder when someone would come and lance it.

The city carried the weight of centuries of oppression and suffering, and that history had left its scars. The veil was weak, all but torn. It was so easy to _see_. People of the City of Chains had grand, hopeless dreams, and drowned their despair in ale that smelled and tasted of old piss.

There was so much he could do with this kind of city. What was that Orlesian saying again; the world is an oyster? Certainly it all seemed filthy and disgusting and full of possibilities.

 _This must be,_ he thought, _what it feels like to be alive_.

But first, as always, he had his responsibilities. 

Uncle Gamlen had not been happy to offer them lodgings, and Hawke didn’t have to be a literal mind-reader to see that Gamlen was lying through his teeth about the family estate. No matter. Hawke had no intention of staying at his hovel for long. He didn’t care _personally_ , of course, but his mother and siblings deserved something better.

It took him a few days to settle things – make sure they had enough food, that the Templars weren’t about to storm the place because a nervous neighbour tipped them off, that uncle wasn’t making mother miserable over the issue of their family estate.

When he felt reasonably sure that things would not fall apart the second he turned his back, he argued with Carver some more and went to explore the city. He needed a way to make money, first of all, but that would probably take care of itself. People always seemed to want to give him coin.

More importantly, there were two apostates (and one abomination) in his family.  In a city like this, he needed friends. Preferably friends who had other friends, and ears in the right places and fingers in the right pockets.

* * *

The streets of Kirkwall were paved with dirt and centuries of misery, and its high stone walls towered over passers-by. Hawke could feel the residual emotions seep through his soles. Most of it was suffering. Someone had once made the streets to sprawl and confuse, for the sake of some ill magic.

But Hawke rarely got lost. In most crowds, there was someone who knew where they were going.

Eventually, he found the Hanged Man. In its own way this was inevitable, because everything suspicious and deceitful naturally gravitated towards the Hanged Man. The place was a despicable, filthy, morally bankrupt watering hole. Dirt and ancient blood stains covered everything and looked like they wouldn’t come off even if you tried to scrape them with a knife. Which probably happened often enough, judging from all the holes.

Hawke felt right at home.

Meeting Varric was another sort of inevitable. The dwarf was dealing cards to several people around a small table, piles of coin scattered across its surface, and his mind stood out to Hawke like a pearl amongst trash.

Hawke listened to his voice in the stale air of the tavern and the echoes in the minds of the people. Varric’s story seemed to involve too many dragons and Chantry virgins to be anything but outrageous lies stapled together with charisma and audacity. But, oh, the images he could create in people's minds...

Hawke didn’t so much choose to approach as he was drawn in.

* * *

The first time Varric saw Hawke, he knew that there would be a story. Hawke trailed loose ends like fishing hooks. Sooner or later, something would catch.

Varric grinned. Hawke beamed.

There were layers there, and no one else in Hanged Man had enough sobriety or sense to see half of them. A smile told a story, and in Hawke Varric saw a kindred soul.

“Mind if I play too?” Hawke asked, all but beaming with goodwill, “See, I’m new in town. I feel it would be a, _hah_ , terrible shame to deny you all the chance to bask in my presence.”

A little laugh, self-deprecating and exaggerated, enough to imply the opposite of the boastful words. _I am just like you,_ it said. _I don’t like the snotty folk up in Hightown any more than you do_ , it said. _I can be persuaded to buy everyone a round of ale_ , it said.

Varric saw the real thing, of course. But he was also the sort of person who admired a good lie.

And the rest, as they say, was a story.

* * *

_Two weeks later..._

 

There was an was an abomination in the red lights district. And it wasn’t Hawke.

Hawke stumbled in surprise as he caught its mind, almost put his palm through one of Kirkwall’s many sharp spikes, and found his feet just in time to catch his balance.

“You okay there, Silver?”

“Just stumbled over my own feet,” Hawke said, smiling blithely. “You said something about an Antivan standoff between the Coterie and the Carta?”

Varric grinned, accepted the lie, and went on with his latest implausible story.

“ – and then, you wouldn’t believe this, the Templars of all people showed up! Turns out they suspected one of the Coterie ‘alchemists’ was in fact an apostate. Which, of course, is completely unthinkable! Preposterous! A scandal! Yeah, I laughed too. Sometimes I wonder if the Kirkwall Templars aren’t too good at their jobs – oh, shit! I know that dwarf. Hide!”

Hawke allowed Varric to pull him in an alley and crouched next to him behind some broken crates. This was all automatic. It was always difficult for him to think and walk at the same time. Talking was out of question altogether. Thankfully, Varric was providing all the discussion, which had meandered to the topic of Varric’s age-old feud with the merchants’ guild.

(Someone had been sending him death threats again. Varric used them to prop up the wonky side of his table.)

Hawke took the chance to dig deeper into the mind of the abomination. It was difficult. Details were always hard. 

The abomination was a Templar recruit. That was… probably bad. Hawke scrunched his eyebrows. Something inside his mind was nagging at him. The thought was elusive, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Sometimes, the human mind jumped to a conclusion before the rest of him caught on. People did it all the time, _real_ people, but somehow it was always more difficult to look at the thoughts that did and did not quite belong to himself, the fossils of human instinct and memories that were the shell of –

Garrett.

Hawke didn’t like to think about that name. It made him feel bad.

But the pain of the other spirit was clear and sharp, easy to focus on. Its suffering shone like a beacon, piercing through the miasma of old pain that clung to Kirkwall.

It felt _too_ sharp, too fresh and urgent. It disrupted Kirkwall’s quiet mourning.

Hawke didn't like it. Kirkwall was his city now, his home. He should do something about the problem before the Templars started sniffing around.

But how should he go about it? Telling the truth, even to Varric, was out of question. And an apostate should have no reason to want to poke around in the affairs of Templars. Hawke had no reason to know about the spirit. 

But he was thinking like Hawke the demon, who was uniquely lonely and had unique secrets. Maybe he should try thinking like Garrett the apostate, living in the fear of the Chantry and men in skirts. 

If he could just get close enough, he could probably find a useful mind. Someone who knew something. And then, all he needed was a ‘coincidence’, to trip that someone up. As long as he managed to expose the plot, he had a reason to interfere with it. No apostate wanted Templars to be more vigilant.

“Well, I’d say having to deal with the Merchant’s Guild warrants a drink or two,” Hawke said and pointed at the door to the Blooming Rose. Bathing in the light of the red lanterns, the bordello looked like a haven. 

“You, my friend, are truly a mind-reader. Let's go.”

* * *

There was a commotion inside.

“I know you serve Templars,” said the Templar in a frustrated voice. “It’s an open secret, if it is a secret at all. I am not here to, to arrest you, or…”

“Oh?” said the reluctant employee. Her arms were crossed and her eyes hard, but her voice was sultry. “Are you a customer, then? Forgive my assumption, honey, it’s not often we serve the Knight-Captain himself. Would you like to peruse our wares?”

Said Knight-Captain flushed. Under his mop of curly, blond hair, his face looked like a bowl of tomato-noodle soup. “No! That’s not what I… our recruits, they’re, they’ve been going missing. I know they visited you! If I could just…”

And there, in the crowd, was the mind Hawke needed. Idunna, mostly the Exotic Wonder of the East, occasionally the Tramp from Darktown. And a bloodmage. 

Her hate towards the Templar burned bitterly. Hawke could see the war of indecision in her mind. Should she try to snare him? It was too dangerous. A Knight-Captain was stronger, more experienced than a recruit. His disappearance would be taken seriously, her companions tracked down. But catching him would be a blow to the core of the Order…

Hawke thought fast. Idunna was controlling her power well. Any apostate who couldn’t was weeded out quickly. But today, her anger had made her magic volatile, simmering under her skin like oil waiting for a spark…

Behind his back, Hawke snapped his fingers.

Idunna’s hand burst into fire.

She gasped and extinguished the flames. This happened in seconds. But it was already too late. Silence fell, and all eyes were on Idunna. There were terrified, hushed whispers and a widening circle of space, as the rest of the prostitutes and curious customers backed away from the apostate.

And Idunna was left alone in the crowd, frozen under the incredulous stare of the Knight-Captain.

Then, she snarled, her face twisting with anger. The most dangerous mage was always the one who had nothing left to lose.

“If you think I’ll go quietly, you’re wrong!”

She sliced her forearm. Dark, thick blood spewed out, and a thick miasma filled the air.

People screamed and fought to get away. Hawke and Varric exchanged a glance and joined the fight.

* * *

Idunna’s lifeless corpse lay sprawled on the floor, pale and bent at odd angles.

“Maker preserve us!” said Cullen desperately, trying to catch his breath. “A bloodmage in the heart of the city! This is… worse than I expected.”

Hawke wiped the blood from his staff blade, watching Cullen carefully. He would require a delicate touch.

“I doubt this sort of thing is common,” Hawke lied. “There must be a connection. A trail of missing recruits leading to a bloodmage cannot be a coincidence.”

Cullen frowned at him. “Yes, I agree… and I thank you for your assistance. I am Knight-Captain Cullen. Who are you?”

Hawke smacked his forehead in mock chagrin. “Ah, where are my manners? I am Hawke, and this is my partner, Varric. We have been investigating this case of missing recruits for some time now.”

Varric sent him a sidelong glance that said: ‘we _have_?’ but he didn’t contradict. “Maybe she had accomplices,” Varric suggested. “There might be some answers in her room.”

* * *

The trail led to Darktown, where the desperation of Kirkwall was distilled and refined until you almost choked on it just by breathing the air. No one cared about anyone else, unless money was involved.

Hawke had a sneaking suspicion that bringing Cullen there was like bringing a bronto to one of those Orlesian shops that sold fine crystal glasses and decanters. Although it had to be said that Cullen seemed remarkably oblivious. Hawke wasn’t sure how the man had managed to miss all those apostates who scattered away like rats to their holes at the sight of his gleaming armour.

They found Keran in one particularly filthy corner of the undercity. He was floating on a spiral of white light, half naked and unconscious. He wasn’t alone.

“The Knight-Captain himself,” sneered Tarohne, confident in her company of mages and enthralled spirits. "How nice of you to offer yourself to the demons!"

Hawke was momentarily distracted by the way she painted her lips (did that shade of white exist?) before he noticed her mind.

Almost completely gone. Painted over and rearranged, traits like ambition and arrogance and cruelty exaggerated into a caricature of who she had once been. It was a skilful work. Hawke suspected a pride demon.

“You will be a delightful host,” Tarohne continued, her voice laced with twisted joy. “The Knight-Commander will lose her mind!”

“I will not bow to you, demon!” Cullen shouted, drawing his sword. There was an unhinged gleam in his eyes. Hawke caught the impression of a loop in his mind, a sensation of falling through time, reality becoming a thin illusion over an old, nightmarish reality.

Wonderful, a flashback. Cullen was going to be a pain to deal with.

* * *

Once Tarohne and her mages lay dead on the floor, Keran’s prison disintegrated.

Cullen was staring at the corpses with a glassy look in his eyes. He wasn’t going to be of any use. Hawke went to check on the hapless missing recruit on his own.

“Is it… is it over?”

Hawke dug deeper. Keran was confused, his thoughts in a tangle. Hope ( _please, let it be over_ ), dread ( _not another illusion, please, Maker_ ). But there was no sign of a demon. “Yes, it is,” Hawke said.

“Oh, thank the Maker. I thought he had abandoned me.” Relief ( _it is over_ ), pride ( _I resisted_ ).  

“Sweet mother of Andraste!”

Cullen had finally caught onto the present. He drew out his sword again, a wild look in his eyes. A bit of froth clung on the corner of his lip. It wasn’t a very stable look on him, to say the least.

“What did they do to you, recruit?”

“I, I tried to resist, sir,” Keran stammered. “I didn’t take anything they offered!”

“I can’t know if you’re lying,” Cullen said grimly. “You could be a demon in waiting. We can’t take any risks.”

Cullen’s mind was an occupied land. Fear and pain and helplessness had left behind a tyrannical government that kept a careful watch for any dissenting idea that tried to break the mould. Mercy and compassion were all but fugitives. 

With someone like Cullen in a position of authority, and if the Knight-Commander was half as paranoid as they said… things were not looking good for Kirkwall’s mages.

“ _Or_ , you could take him back to the circle,” Hawke interjected. “I’m sure someone there will be able to confirm that he’s clean. And if he _is_ possessed, you’ll be able to use him to root out the rest of them. What can a single demon do while the entire Templar Order is watching?”

Cullen hesitated. Sanity and good sense revolted and managed to push back his knee-jerk instincts. For now.

“Ye-ees, that sounds like a reasonable suggestion,” he said. “In any case, thank you. You have done the Order a great service, serah Hawke. Serah Varric. I will see that you are rewarded.”

* * *

“Well, that was a terribly awkward experience,” Varric said, once they managed to slip away, purses jingling. “‘Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.’ Right into your face. Ser Curly isn’t the most observant, is he?”

“Lucky for us,” Hawke said. “I’m glad that’s over.”

“Tell me about it. Life’s never boring with you around, that’s for sure. We go for one drink and discover a conspiracy to destroy the Templar Order. In the end I didn’t even get that drink.”

“We got rewarded handsomely,” Hawke said. “We could go spend the Chantry’s reward money and buy out the Hanged Man. The good stuff they keep under the counter.”

“My friend, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Yeah. I do that, sometimes.”

* * *

Isabela had not expected her duel with Hayder to be clean, because dirty tricks were par for the course in the underworld. If you weren’t planning on stabbing your opponent in the back, you probably weren’t doing it right. And hiding in the Chantry had a flavour of profane she could usually appreciate.

This time, though, it just came across as annoying and pretentious. Some men had no style.

What she had not expected was to find that they were not alone in the chapel. This fact was made evident when Hayder’s boasting was interrupted by a loud curse and a crash.

“Oi, watch out! I don’t think these statues are structurally sound!”

“Me and my arse have noticed this, thanks.” There was a pained groan. “This is why dwarves aren’t meant to climb. That’ll smart tomorrow.”

“I could heal it for you?”

“You, my friend, are a treasure beyond price. My backside is eternally grateful for your concern.”

“Oi! Some people are trying to stage an ambush here!” hollered Hayder, whose inflated ego never could withstand the slightest needling. 

There was a scuffling noise, and a man and a dwarf appeared from behind the dais where the Grand Cleric held her sermons. They looked about two drinks from passing out and blinked owlishly at the ambush. For some reason, both also held an armful of smallclothes.

“Who are you people?” the tall man asked, peering suspiciously at the assorted thugs. “If you work for the Templars, I would like to inform you that I am no mage and the staff at my back is a completely mundane walking stick.”

Everyone immediately glanced at said staff and noticed how its end was in the shape of a naked, golden woman and sparkled slightly in the dim light. There was a general shuffling motion as the thugs tried to inch away from the apostate without actually moving.

Isabela laughed. “These people are nothing but hired muscle,” she said, sweeping her hand in an arc that managed to take in the assorted thugs and dismiss them as a minor inconvenience all at once. “Brought along because Hayder here is too much of a coward to face me in an honest duel.”

She leaned forward, so that the man and the dwarf had a better view of her cleavage. They glanced down, obligingly. “I am Isabela, and I find myself in need of someone to, ah… watch my backside. I would be _very grateful_ to you two fine gentlemen…” her voice dropped into a sultry drawl, lips puckered just-so.

“Sold,” the man said immediately, dragging his eyes to her face. There was laughter in his eyes, like he had caught on to her game but was willing to play along. Isabela liked him already.

“Indeed,” the dwarf agreed and pulled a hefty crossbow off his back. “Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Bianca.”


	4. See the new house

_One month later..._

 

Isabela entered The Hanged Man. It was packed full of the bottom scum of society, as always. She ignored the drunken leers and catcalls aimed in her general direction, looking for her friends.

“Isabela! Here! We’re here!”

Hawke beamed and waved at Isabela, his whole arm making dramatic sweeps in the air.

Isabela smiled in a way that could have melted butter and sauntered towards the table, where Hawke and Varric seemed to be in the middle of daylight robbery, if the uneven distribution of the coin piles was any indication.

“My very fair lady,” Hawke said earnestly, pressing his hand near his heart. “Would you like to join me and my friends here for a game of cards?”

Isabela gave him a smile that was a dictionary of suggestions. There was a ripple of movement, as several men tried to make space for her to sit. She wedged herself between Varric and Hawke.

Varric leaned closer, confiding in a very loud stage-whisper that was sure to carry across the room: “A word of advice, Rivaini. Don’t bet anything you’re not willing to lose. I’ve yet to see Hawke lose a game of Wicked Grace. The shifty bugger must be able to read minds.”

“Hoo? That sounds like a challenge to me,” Isabela said, smirking. She was playing, of course. Both Wicked Grace and the other game - the warning words had not been meant for her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man turn and eye the group, a calculating glint in his eye.

Hawke laughed and rubbed at the back of his head sheepishly. His face was so innocent he might have been in a Chantry chapel, not the Hanged Man, where corruption coated every surface like fine varnish. You sort of caught sin off of it.

Isabela raised an eyebrow with the approval of one master of a craft had for another. Swindling wasn’t easy, but if you did it properly, it looked effortless. Hawke didn’t look like he had to even try.

And, predictably enough, the man at the counter stood and ambled over. He carried a certain air about him, as though he thought he was doing everyone a favour by gracing them with his presence. The set of his eyebrows suggested that the local cretins probably never saw a proper nobleman before.

Isabela thought that his head was far too high up his ass for him to be anything but a whole lot of arsehole.

“’Ello,” he said. His Orlesian accent was so unfortunate that it had to be some sort of a miracle that he had not yet been mugged, gagged and disposed of in the filthy swill that tried to pass for water in the harbour.

“Per’aps I as well may join the game?”

Hawke’s grin was blinding. Isabela tried not to laugh.

* * *

An hour later, the Orlesian proved himself a sore loser and loudly accused Hawke of cheating.

He was, very unfortunately, unaware that any iteration of the word ‘cheat’ tended to cause a certain Pavlovian reaction in the clientele of the Hanged Man.

An indiscriminate brawl broke out in a matter of seconds, and no one bothered to even pretend it wasn’t actually all about what the man sitting next to them had suggested about their sister three years ago. The lowlife of Kirkwall cherished their grudges. They were practically vintage.

Norah the waiter dropped her tray of drinks and ran upstairs. Corff the bartender sighed and bent under the counter to relocate some of the more expensive bottles of liquor.

Glasses were thrown, bottles were smashed, one man got tossed through a table and the front door. One man grabbed a chair, missed his target and hit a third man who just so happened to be built like a brick house. This development was met with cheers from the rest of the patrons, who never missed an opportunity to appreciate the bad luck of someone else.

Overall, everyone but the Orlesian nobleman had a great time. He was strung up outside from his bootstraps, and could be heard swearing in a tearful voice that his father would hear about this and everyone would regret crossing him, just you wait.

After things had calmed down and Norah had emerged to irritably sweep glass shards and wood shrapnel in a pile, Hawke slung both arms on his friends’ shoulders, grinning from ear to ear.

Hawke was the sort of man who woke up in the morning with hair sticking up every which way and still looked like he belonged on the cover of a bodice-ripper. Even now, sporting a black eye and a split lip, he managed to look roguishly handsome.

“That guy was _loaded_!” he said, patting his pocket. It made a jingling noise. “Enough sovereigns to bribe half the Viscount’s keep, at least. As it happens, there happens to be a mansion I’ve happened to be thinking of stealing. Want to come along?”

Isabela laughed, throwing her head back and snuggling closer to Hawke’s chiselled chest. “Hawke, where have you _been_ all my life?”

* * *

Hawke had found out about the mansion not two weeks into his stay in Kirkwall. It had a… colourful history. Of a very particular sort. Over the years it had belonged to a wide variety of people, sometimes not for very long, and had the paper record to match. The current official owner was a Tevinter merchant. In reality, the place had recently been illegally taken over by a magister.

No doubt his reasons were terrible. Whatever they were, Hawke didn’t know and didn’t care. Because, despite its disreputable history, the mansion was still in Hightown. And it straddled the line between nobility and notoriety and fell in a place that was, through some strange selective blindness of the rich and powerful, almost inconspicuous. If he played his cards right, no one would look too carefully into how a refugee had gotten a hold of it. Even if that refugee happened to be a scion of the once fabled Amell family.

Rumours would flare up, of course, because scandal was the staple currency in the high society. Hawke would spend some time spinning stories and smiling winningly at nosy nobles, Varric would grease some pockets, and the Hawke family would settle in and be mostly forgotten about before the old year died. The thing about gossip was that it had a short span of attention.

But first he needed to get the deed.

The Viscount’s keep was full of toadies and exasperated servants and people who, apparently, kept kicking walls no matter how many times they were asked to stop. Hawke ignored everyone and marched right in. if you looked like you knew what you were doing, hardly anyone thought to stop you.

He found Aveline at the barracks. Her face brightened at the sight of him, then clouded over with suspicion as she took in his company.

 “Hey, Aveline,” Hawke said brightly. Behind him, Isabela and Varric were doing a lousy job of looking like they weren’t up to no good. “Do you know where Hightown’s real estate records are?”

Aveline rubbed the bridge of her nose. “ _Really_ , Hawke? You’re not going to even pretend you are here on legitimate business?”

“I _am_ here on legitimate business,” Hawke said, a trace of hurt in his voice. “I am legitimately stealing a mansion for my family.”

Aveline groaned. “Why. Why am I friends with you?”

“It’s owned by a Tevinter magister,” Hawke said. “I’m almost sure there are slavers inside. If I happened to steal the place, I’d probably have to clear them out.”

Silence fell, as heavy and forbidding as an iron curtain.

“Go to the upper left wing,” Aveline finally said. “Senechal’s office is in the back. You’ll find the papers there. You didn’t hear this from me.”

Hawke beamed. “Thank you, Aveline!”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

* * *

There were, in fact, slavers inside the mansion. They appeared confused when Hawke politely explained that he was the new owner and suggested that they clear out.

Regrettably, they never made it to the keep’s holding cells.

* * *

“So, what do you think?” Hawke asked his family. His mother and siblings looked around their new mansion with a confused sort of appreciation.

“It’s certainly better than Gamlen’s place,” his sister allowed. He could see the way she put the words in a tidy, careful line. Everything she said was designed to be inoffensive.

It was fascinating, really. She didn’t even realise she was doing it.

“Yeah, until the Templars come knocking on the door,” said Carver. _His_ words were a jab. Hawke ignored it.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said.

He couldn’t quite help the cheer in his voice, even though it was sure to annoy his brother even more. True to form, Carver sent him a dirty look and stomped off, shoulders drawn in a tight, angry line.

“I get the big bedroom,” Hawke yelled after him.

Bethany bit her lip. Hawke watched, curious, as she tried to shape her words. This, too, was familiar.

“You know, brother, he doesn’t hate you. He’s just bitter, because he feels like he’s living in your shadow.”

Hawke blinked. Lightning-fast, connections raced each other in his mind.

 _Of course_. He felt foolish. How many times had he preyed on jealousy? It could be ugly, it could be destructive, but Carver’s jealousy was tempered. Bitter. Stewing instead of boiling.

And Hawke hadn’t understood, because you didn’t dig into the minds of your family. _Balls_.

Behind him, Bethany rushed out of the room. Her relief lingered in the room after she was gone, like a faint whiff of a bitter perfume.

* * *

Bethany hated it when Carver and Garrett clashed.

Well, ‘clashed’ may have been the wrong word. Carver was always the one to start it, saying something sarcastic or rude, and Garrett just blinked and looked confused.

Bethany thought that it was that failure to acknowledge him that might hurt Carver the most. Garrett couldn’t help being so… so overwhelming. Powerful and kind and charming and capable. He was larger than life. He could do anything. No wonder Carver felt inadequate.

But she hated the tension.

No.

She was afraid of it.

And it wasn’t even a rational fear, she thought sleepily. What was there to be afraid of?

( _Her elder brother_ )

Maybe she just disliked tension in the family. They were all she had.

Bethany let go of the thought with practised ease and her mind fell through the Veil and into the green mists of the Fade.

* * *

_Bethany dreamed…_

There was a meadow. Bethany wandered through flowers and grasses without any particular destination. Everything in the Fade was always pleasant.

Sometimes, she almost wondered why. She knew that this place was supposed to be dangerous and deceptive. Demons were always there to lure an unsuspecting mage into making that final mistake.

Sometimes, she _knew_ why. Because there was a demon, of course there was. It hovered at the edges of her dream and never tried to talk to her.

No other demons came.

Of course they didn’t.

(The other demon was keeping them away.)

Sometimes, she could almost remember something else. The cruel glint of a blade in the dead of night, and the fear of men in steel armour and faceless masks. Her brother, eyes glowing in shades of yellow and purple. But thoughts were always just blurry enough in the Fade, and the memory slipped away.

Bethany dreamed.

The demons stayed away.

They always did.

* * *

Carver was too angry to sleep. This wasn’t unusual. He often resented his brother more in the evenings, when the thoughts he could outrun during the day finally caught up with him.

Garrett didn’t _see_ him. Carver was just a younger brother, someone to protect.

His brother was special. Everyone saw it. Carver saw it. And because he saw it, what Garrett thought of Carver _mattered_. As much as he hated it, as much as wanted to be his own man, he also wanted his brother to see him. To acknowledge him.

Carver groaned, rubbing his brow. His brother didn’t even realise how fucking perfect he was, how insignificant he made Carver feel. And Carver couldn’t even blame him. Because it wasn’t done on purpose. Which made it _worse_.

A fucking _circle_ , he thought. Not Circle, but a circle. Ruining his life.

He’d been almost happy in the army. Fighting the darkspawn.

He all but tore off his clothes and went to bed. Eventually, he fell asleep.

* * *

_Carver dreamed…_

He felt like he might swell with pride. He was the war hero, the champion, and everyone clustered around him. Admiration. Pride. His mother wept in joy. His father clapped his shoulder, warm regard in his eyes. Bethany stood to his side, ever present, smiling in shared joy.

Garrett was on the other side, beaming, and looked at Carver. Really looked. He didn’t look past, didn’t dismiss with a glance, didn’t tilt his head in confusion. He _saw_. They were equal.

(Behind Carver stood a demon. It pulled gently at his memories and constructed something that wasn’t a memory but a fantasy. Something that Carver wanted.

The demon that was Hawke looked at his brother, and tried to see.)

* * *

Leandra smiled at the sight of Hightown, spreading outside her window. It was cool and clean in moonlight, just as she remembered from her childhood.

This wasn’t the home of her birth, but it was _grand_. Something that befitted the Amell name. Garrett was such a good son. Always taking care of his family, carrying the weight of it like it was nothing.

(And some part of her told her that maybe she should stop leaning on him, that she was his _mother_ , that she owed him better… but that part was used to getting ignored.)

Leandra washed her face and brushed her hair. She went to bed and sighed at the faint smell of lilacs in her sheets.

Moonlight filtered through the windows. For the first time in years, she was almost content.

* * *

_Leandra dreamed…_

The garden was filled with people and golden afternoon light. Leandra watched as Garrett escorted a dashing young woman to the dance floor. The twins were already there, laughing and twirling around each other.

Behind Leandra, her husband was in the middle of an animated discussion with her father. She heard their laughter echo through the garden. Gamlen was sitting next to her, nursing his drink and scowling.

All was well.

The demon that hovered near her made sure of that.


	5. Shards of truth

Merrill held the shard of the Eluvian in her hands. Its magic strained against her hold, trying to break free. She didn’t allow it. There was power in the Taint, dangerous and corrupting. If she were to falter, even for a second, all would be lost.

There was no one near. It was for the best; she wasn’t very popular in the camp lately. Not that she ever had been, really.

She hoped someone would come and take her to Kirkwall soon. She wanted to leave while she could still remember the times when her people didn’t look at her like she carried the Blight.

The tainted mirror glimmered prettily. Merrill could see her own image reflected on it, distorted and dark.

”Hello! Are you Merrill?” someone shouted. His voice was cheery and bright like the golden sunlight of lazy afternoons. Merrill mood lifted just from hearing it.

She slipped the hard in her pocket and stood up, hastily brushing her robe. There was a group of shemlen… a group of humans walking up the mountain path.  And a possible dwarf. They looked at her with vary eyes, except for the man with the beard. She found herself hoping he’d agree to take her along. He had a kind smile.

“Oh, _aneth-ara_ ,” Merrill said nervously. “I didn’t realise there were people coming up the mountain. It’s not a good place for a walk. People get lost, and eaten by the… the things that hunt there. You look strong, though! I’m sure you’ll be fine!”

Everyone but the cheerful man were giving each other those looks again, the uncomfortable kind that Merrill was so used to seeing. She cringed.

“Oh, I’m rambling! Sorry! I’m Merrill. Although I’m sure you knew that. What are you called? It’s not rude to ask that of a human, is it?”

She was still rambling. Merrill wished her mouth would shut up when she wanted it. Sometimes she would just keep on talking, talking and _talking_ , until she wasn’t sure what she even said and there was just her own voice, trembling with anxiety.

“You’ll have to try a lot harder to offend me,” the bearded man said, laughter bubbling in his voice. “I’m Hawke! These are Bethany, Carver, Aveline and Varric.”

Everyone greeted Merrill with polite smiles. Hawke had managed to pull the conversation back on comfortable terrain with just a few words. A flood of gratitude filled her. 

“Are… are you here to escort me to Kirkwall?” she asked, and couldn’t quite keep the hope from her voice.

“Yes, we are! But the Keeper said there was some funeral rite we need you to do first?”

The man dangled an amulet in his fingers, swinging it to and forth like it was nothing more than a pretty bauble.

Merrill drew in a sharp breath. “Oh! For the _Asha'bellanar_! We should go right away. It’s not wise to keep her waiting.”

“Eh, she’s already waited six months,” Hawke said. He was digging his left nostril with his pinkie. “But Carver is getting grouchy about the mud in his boots and Varric is running sober, so we should get going anyway.”

“Brother,” the youngest man hissed. “Don’t make me look like a fool!”

“But it’s so easy,” Hawke whined. “ _Fine_. Carver is manly and handsome and the greatest warrior in all of Ferelden.”

Merrill blinked slowly, as everyone but Carver laughed.

“He _does_ look manly,” she offered. She hadn’t seen very many humans, but Carver did have very wide shoulders and an angular sort of face. That was considered manly, surely? “And I’m sure he’s a great warrior.”

Carver sputtered. For whatever reason, Hawke’s grin suddenly got wider and more toothy. He pulled his brother into a headlock and rubbed his knuckles on Carver’s skull. The girl, Bethany, sighed and put a hand on Hawke’ shoulder.

“Let’s not forget our task, brother,” she said. “I don’t like the feel of this mountain. A lot of things were buried here.”

“Yes,” groused the woman with red hair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Some of us happen to have a patrol tomorrow morning. We cannot all work the evenings and make a living out of breaking half of the laws in Kirkwall.”

“Just half? I should try harder.”

“ _Brother_.”

“As much as I like seeing a family squabble I’m _not_ a part of, I agree. There’s a drink in the Hanged Man that is calling my name,” the dwarf… Varric said. “Once we get back to Kirkwall, I’m buying everyone a round.”

The others cheered. Merrill wondered if the invitation was meant for her, too. She hoped it was. These were nothing like the terrifying humans from the Dalish tales, meant for scaring disobedient children.

Just like the People, these people were also… well, people. Funny, how she had never really thought of it that way before.

* * *

Halfway up the mountain, Merrill noticed that there was something strange about Hawke. For one, he was too powerful to be a normal mage. No one had that sort of mana, unless, well.

She flexed her fingers. Her wrists were a little stiff, lately.

Unthinkingly, Merrill asked whether Hawke, too, was a blood mage, only to have Bethany fall upon her like the wrath of Fen’Harel. She stepped in front of her brother and glowered until Merrill hunched her shoulders and bit her lip and wished she hadn’t said anything at all.

“My brother does _not_ consort with demons,” Bethany hissed, voice laced with enough venom to probably poison Merrill’s entire clan. Thankfully, Hawke chose that moment to put a soothing hand on Bethany’s shoulder.

“Well, I can see where you’re coming from, but it’s not like that. I’ve always been unusual,” Hawke said, offering the words to Merrill like a token of peace. He smiled, eyes curved into friendly crescents. “There’s, _heh_ , nothing unusual about it. No blood magic, no deals with demons. Just a _natural_ gift.”

“Ah, I see,” Merrill said, pathetically thankful for the intervention. “I’m sorry I assumed. Let’s go.”

She made no more mention of blood magic or demons. And yet…

Later, while the rest of the group was busy trying to scrub off gore and dirt after taking out the umpteenth platoon of shambling corpses, Merrill rubbed her fingers against a stain of blood on Hawke’s robe. She sniffed the gore as inconspicuously as she could. The unmistakeable tang of the Fade prickled in her nostrils.

Hawke turned and winked at her. _I’ll tell you later_ , he mouthed.

Oh. _Of course_. Merrill felt foolish. Hawke was an apostate. The Chantry hated blood magic, didn’t they? And she’d gone and asked about it, without knowing if everyone was in on the secret. No wonder Bethany had been so angry.

* * *

”Hahren na melana sahlin,” Merrill chanted. ”Emma ir abelas, souver'inan isala hamin...”

The others were staring at her. She could feel it, a sort of a prickle at the back of her neck. She hoped she wouldn’t stumble over the words or swallow her tongue. She was representing the Dalish, and her clan had already been unfriendly and snippy.

“Vhenan him dor'felas, in uthenera na revas,” she finished.

The amulet began to glow with golden light. Through a veil of bright flames, the form of a woman emerged. She stepped down from the altar and gave everyone a gimlet look. Merrill sunk into a hasty bow.

“Do rise, my child,” Asha'bellanar said, her voice worn at the edges like an old book. “The People are far too quick to bend their knee.

“And… I see. _Hmm_. You are young and bright, but the road you walk is dark and treacherous. Choose well whom you place your trust in, for your eyes alone will fail you in the Beyond.”

“Thank you, Asha'bellanar,” Merrill breathed and stood.

Asha'bellanar inclined her head and turned to Hawke. “I see that you kept your end of the bargain. I must admit, I am impressed. Promises tend to mean so little to your kind.”

Hawke’s smile was a little strained. “Well, you know how it is. Trying to make my way in the world, be a respectable sort of human being, that sort of thing.”

A snort from behind told everyone what Aveline thought of Hawke being in any way associated with the concept of ‘respectable’. Hawke’s face broke into a real grin.

Merrill relaxed. She felt much better when Hawke was happy. He had a sort of glow about him, it was infectious.

Asha'bellanar looked pensive. “Secrets have a way of finding the light. Your story... How will it end, I wonder? Step carefully and take care, or the end will be wreathed in fire and blood. The world has a way of tearing down what we build.”

“Yes, I know,” Hawke said, his smile long gone. The look he shared with Asha'bellanar was the private sort. No one else could tell what it meant.

Asha'bellanar nodded, as though satisfied with what she saw, and turned back to the altar. “We stand upon the precipice of change,” she said, voice taking on a strange echo. “The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can _fly_.”

Her shape twisted and stretched, until her wings spread wide against the periwinkle blue of the sky. The dragon flapped its wings, just once, and the force of the shock-wave made everyone stumble.

Then, she was gone.

“ _I_ want to be a dragon,” Hawke said wistfully.

* * *

Hawke couldn’t quite concentrate; something was bothering Aveline. Her mind kept running around the issue, like a mabari chasing its tail, over and over. He had absently followed the pattern all the way to Sundermount, and it was starting to get a little irritating. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“So, Aveline,” Hawke said, once he managed to manoeuvre her to the side. There was little privacy, but at least Varric seemed to be telling Merrill some implausible story involving himself, his editor and a murder most foul over a misplaced comma. “Something on your mind?”

Aveline gave him a pointed look. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to keep my own thoughts to myself around here.”

Hawke beamed at her. “But then I wouldn’t know what you’re thinking!”

Aveline groaned. “If you _must know_ , there is something afoul at the garrison. Some of the patrol routes and assignments seem… suspicious. I have been going through the records, but I don’t have any solid evidence. Yet. Right now, what I _don’t_ need is you storming in like an overly eager puppy to track mud all over my fragile trail. Once I catch the tail of it, I’ll let you know.”

“Ooh, do I get to play vigilante with you? Will we interrogate the bad guys? I’ll be the bad guard, you be the good guard!”

“I have no doubt,” Aveline said in a strained voice. “Just let me – “

Before she could finish her sentence, they were attacked. That wasn’t unusual, per se, because the Wounded Coast was a hot spot of random violence and low-profile crime. If all the bandit camps and smuggler caves were included in the map, Aveline had once said, there would be no room left for any actual topography.

However, after the Tal-Vashoth had been taken out and the birdsong returned (even the wildlife barely paid attention to the various and frequent skirmishes), Hawke found that his hand was being shaken by a rather smarmy-looking dwarf. _That_ one was a novelty.

“Well done, my friends!” the dwarf said. “You have done exactly as I asked!”

“…What? You haven’t asked us?”

“Tell me about it. I can’t buy quality with discount. But you, _you_ seem like a talented man. I have an offer for you.”

“You want to hire us? We met five minutes ago. Most of that was fighting horned giants.”

“And you killed them all. As far as I’m concerned, you have a good track record.”

* * *

The ambush at the coast was the first time Hawke ever saw Qunari in this new, more self-aware life.

What he felt was hatred at first sight, mixed with some sort of an instinctive repulsion.

There was something about their minds, something that reminded him of the pruned, sheared thoughts of slaves. Take what is mutilated, and encase it in metal… and these Tal-Vashoth, these deserters, still had not escaped the shackles of their own minds. They _couldn’t_. The shackles had grown into their flesh until you could not tell one from the other.

What sort of people did this to their own, and called it right?

And now, back in the stony embrace of Kirkwall, he looked into the eyes of the Arishok and found his answer.

“I’m just here because I was promised a share,” Hawke said, because what the Arishok wanted was the truth.

(In another situation Hawke might have lied on purpose, and badly, just to annoy the Arishok. At the moment, he was thinking, and he couldn’t quite think and irritate someone at the same time. It was always easier to be a mirror of what they wanted.)

“I didn’t actually kill the Tal-Vashoth for him. They attacked me, I defended myself. Then I found this dwarf shaking my hand and suggesting business.”

“What? What are you doing?” hissed Javaris, voice alarmed. “This isn’t what we agreed on!”

Hawke didn’t pay attention. The Arishok’s mind was an alien land.

The average Qunari, Hawke had found, didn’t seem to think much beyond their station. They didn’t understand more than their own part in the Qun, if even that. But the Arishok… He was in charge of the Antaam; he _had_ to understand more than the average meat shield. His thoughts were like icebergs, deep and slow and, in their own way, profound.

And Hawke didn’t like what he saw.

Lately, anger had been corroding through the iron of the Arishok’s self-control. Kirkwall chafed at him. He saw no worth in a world where people lived free of shackles.

Hawke hated him.

The Arishok regarded him silently.

“You do not agree with the Qun,” he said eventually. “I am not unfamiliar with the ignorant contempt of the _bas_. But you… you take responsibility. You know purpose. Do you not see, then, the misery and chaos of this wretched city?”

“I see it, and I value what you discard,” Hawke said. “I cherish the imperfect and the lacking, the frivolous and the unnecessary. These things are the colour of life.”

The Arishok’s face twitched. Anger flashed and went away, like a lizard darting across a stone. “…I see. Panahedan, human. I suspect we are done. Dwarf, you will pay him for the imaginary bargain you have made in my name.”

Hawke swept down the stairs in silence, his friends following behind. No one spoke before they were well out of hearing range and then some.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Varric said, waving his hand like he’d burned it on a stove. “Remind me not to come along next time. The air was cold enough to give me nugflesh.”

“I hope _I_ never have to go back,” Hawke said. “I might end up killing him. For existing, mostly.”

Varric patted his elbow. “I don’t think the oxmen would take kindly if they heard that. Let’s avoid a horrific incident and escort Daisy to the Alienage, yeah?”

Hawke’s face broke into a grin, like a ray of sun peeking through a passing cloud. “Oh, yeah, let’s do that!”

Behind him, everyone slowly let out the breath they had been holding.

* * *

Merrill looked sadly at the bare walls of her dingy new house. For something that had taken so much effort to find, it sure didn’t look like much at all.

And it was all stone. Stone and rock and brick like the rest of Kirkwall, the city that towered so high she could barely see a strip of the sky above. And even _that_ little sliver of space was always burning bright from the fires of the foundry district. There was no wind in the poor parts of Kirkwall, no grass, not even a hint of the smell of green things. The Vhenadahl was like an anchor, the only thing that reminded her that the city and its confusing corners did not last forever.

It was all so big. Merrill wondered how she’d ever find her way around the city. Hawke and the others may have escorted her all the way to the alienage, but she couldn’t very well keep trailing after them like a lost halla calf.

She sat down next to the wall. Her new apartment was very bare; she didn’t even have a bed yet. She wished she could have brought something from her clan. If not for good memories, then as a reminder of what this was all for. The shard of the Eluvian burned in her pocket.

_Oh, Tamlen…_

“Speaking of the mirror,” Hawke said, having apparently melted out of the shadows without a sound, “I don’t think you should keep taking the advice of that… spirit trapped inside Sundermount. I don’t trust that guy. You should pick me instead.”

“How did you…?” Merrill asked, understood the implication in a flash of insight, and stoold up slowly, hand gripping her staff. Not a bloodmage, but a _possessed_ mage…

“Are _you_ a… spirit as well?” she asked, voice carefully even. A bead of cold sweat went down her spine.

All spirits were dangerous, but you could interact with them if you were careful. Usually, only the dangerous sort of spirit could be encountered in the mundane world, so this was not a very good thing, but Hawke hadn’t done anything terrible yet.

Besides, if he already had a body, why should he want hers?

“We-ell,” Hawke said, scratching at the back of his neck. “A spirit, yes, something like it. I am from the Fade, anyway. But I’m just Hawke now.”

“Hawke, then,” Merrill said, relaxing her grip on the staff. “How did you end up here? I have never met a possessed person before. I thought you were all monstrous and deformed. Oh, sorry,” she flushed in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be rude. That was rude, wasn’t it?”

Hawke laughed, teeth gleaming white in the dim light of the room. It didn’t look as unsettling as it probably ought to have. “No problem! I can’t take offence to the truth, can I?” He offered Merrill his hand. “Are you coming to the Hanged Man, too? The others already went ahead, so they have a head-start on the terrible ale. You should try it, it’s an important rite of passage!”

Bright, friendly smile. Merrill hesitated for a heartbeat, and took his hand.

“Yes, I would love that.”

And so, just like that, she had made her first friends.

* * *

_Several hours later…_

 

“Varric, you’re my beeesht friend,” Hawke said, words slurred and indistinct from the way his cheek was mashed against the table. “Ish great, not having to lie so much.”

“You lie all the time,” Varric said, grin tugging the corner of his lips. He downed the rest of his pint and shuddered. “Maker, that’s horrible. I think they’ve added more rat droppings to the batch.”

“No, no, look, hear me out,” Hawke said. “Ish always the same, see? We move in, everythinghs fine, I build this, this shiny image of me for the villagers and then, bam, Templarsh or the Blight or shom’thing and ish all gone. And I hafta do it again and again ‘cause it’s no good using magic on people, and no one knows half of the _real_ me. But _you_ know I’m a liar and no good human at leasht. You still like me. Ish great. I’ll kill anyone who tries to asshasminate you.”

“That would be the entire Merchants’ Guild, then,” Varric said. “I do appreciate the sentiment, Silver, but the vague threats of murder suggest you’ve had one too many pints. Come on, I’ll walk you home. Fresh air will do you good.”

Hawke blinked owlishly. “Where are the othersh?”

“Let’s see… Isabela found a new conquest while picking up drinks downstairs. Sunshine got sick in the chamber pot, Junior got a black eye because someone tried to hit on her and he took offence, and Daisy passed out. Aveline left to escort them all home while you argued with Corff about how it’s necessary for any self-respecting tavern to have a piano. Didn’t go over too well. Personally, I think you went wrong with the ‘self-respecting’ part.”

“Ohh, that’sh right. I play piano,” Hawke said, brightening up. “Mother taught me. I’m horrible. I can get the notes right, but I can’t get the feelings right. It’s all technique. No soul.”

He swallowed, but there was something thick and slimy in his throat that didn’t want to go down without a fight.

Hawke liked alcohol for the same reasons other people liked jumping from high rocks to water. There was something interesting about letting the chemicals loosen his self-control and seeing what the human brain came up with. The flavour of the evening appeared to be ‘maudlin’, with an added trace of ‘loose lips’. It was time to get a grip.

Merrill and her strange acceptance had reminded Hawke of how offensive his existence would be to anyone else. Varric might know him better than most people, but ‘abomination’ tended to be where people drew the line.

* * *

The breakfast next morning was a quiet, fragile event. Carver shuffled to the dining room looking like death warmed over, and glared at Hawke, who had committed the grave sin of smiling and wishing him good morning.

“Why is it that you are the only one who doesn’t suffer from a hangover? You drank twice more than I did!”

“Carver,” their mother admonished gently. “Yelling will only make it worse. Have some tea, you need to rehydrate.”

Bethany groaned, rubbing at her temples. “Why can’t magic cure hangovers? What’s the point of magic? Nothing. Nothing is the point.”

It was comfortable and domestic. Carver complained while Hawke tried to make him stay still to heal his black eye. Their mother tried to make them all drink more of the horrible tea that was supposedly good for headaches. Sunlight painted the room with bright light. For a moment, the world was a better place.

Of course, it was too pleasant to last.

Someone knocked on the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. Leandra, Carver and Bethany all turned to look at Hawke, who was put out to find he was outnumbered.

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighed. “I’ll go. But if another neighbour tries to fish for an invitation inside, I swear to Andraste’s holy knickers…”

He dragged himself to the door and pulled open the latch, not bothering to try to look alert or interested. On their porch stood a man who wore expensive-looking robes and an expression of cold disdain.

On a habit, Hawke picked at the surface of his mind and almost recoiled. This man’s mind was rotten. He’d never felt anything so putrid in his life.

(Or, possibly, he just hadn’t paid attention.)

“I am Danarius,” the man said. Even his voice was oily and slithering, like it wanted to crawl into Hawke’s ears.

“I believe you are in possession of my property. Namely, this building.”

 

* * *

 

 

Omake:

 

 _Hello_ , Hawke said to the demon. In this space between realms, both of them floated in a darkness framed by a mirror. _The_ mirror.

_‘Audacity’, was it?_

This was not the language of mortals. There were words, conjoined to images and sounds and emotions. The language of spirits. And Hawke’s words were sharp. Meant to mock, meant to cut. Audacity bristled uncertainly. It wasn’t sure if it was talking to a mortal or another spirit. Hawke’s mind shifted like quicksand.

 _Why do you come here?_ It asked.

 _You are trying to seduce what is mine_ , Hawke said. There was an image of Merrill, smiling cheerfully. A glittering shard of a mirror. Blood, gushing and splattering. An intent to deceive, to sneak fingers into her mind and twist them _just so_.

_You have taught her blood magic. But she is mine. Everyone in Kirkwall is mine. The Dalish clan, they are also mine. Do not touch them._

_They belong to whoever takes them_ , said Audacity. _You know this. We are not bound to mortal laws._

 _You are not, but I am,_ said Hawke. _Stay away from her, or I will destroy you. Do not think I won’t. Do not think I can’t._

_What are you?_

_I am the one that guards Kirkwall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses which companion shows up in the next chapter. First two don't count.


End file.
